The script

Dialogue transcripts

There's an old shrine concealed beneath this growth...

There's nothing to do here anymore.

There's nothing to do here.

These babies at max volume would blow the houseboat clear out of the water.

These floor cups are full of... piss.

They must have assembled the pipes here.

They never got around to putting up the new wallpaper.

They say that, once, a whole tribe stumbled upon the valley during their winter migration, and they became enamoured with those plants --…

They should install an elevator.

They're gone.

Thick cables -- an addition. Their outer sheath screams 'high voltage'.

Thin plates of metal buckle and wurble with the wind.

Think, operant. If you were you, what would you get up to?

This cat's furniture is nicer than yours.

This complex stretches as far under the hillside as it does over it.

This elevator goes straight to the roof.

This is a template thought flow, the content is not set yet.

This is kind of beautiful.

This is the door you came in from. Muffled voices rise from the shop below.

This is what remains of the Portofiro's bright futurist mania.

This keeps nothing in nor out.

This line of work can be nothing but songs you sing to yourself between curtain calls.

This lock looks pickable.

This looks almost new.

This looks recent.

This must be the collapsed awning over the main entrance.

This noticeboard is covered in wet paper.

This place is not as you left it. The world moved on behind your back.

This sign used to have a name on it, before the years smeared it away.

This stony face... does not ring a bell.

This tank's not fuel. It's liquid oxygen.

This tuk-tuk has been parked for some time.

This was originally a photo developing lab, but you may twist it to suit your needs.

Three engineers clustered on the viewing platform, staring into the depths below.

Three postboxes, all of them missing the occupant's names.

Three posters stare back at you from the wall. A watchful triad, ready to creep into your midnight's hour.

Through the cracked drawer, you can see the cabinet is mostly empty.

Tickets for a losing match, torn to shreds.

Tightly-wound rolls of paper, begging to be unravelled.

Tiny creatures peer from plastic capsules, their freedom left to chance.

Tiny diodes scattered across the bedside table's surface, abandoned mid-project.

Tiny figures jog across the screen, lobbing the hard pelota ball back and forth.

Tiny prison bars.

Tiny rusted switches, their labels worn off.

Too many pipes to keep track of, serpentine, cold.

Too small for a guard dog.

Tools. Weapons. Watch out.

Trash, washed up here from a thousand miles away.

Treasure for a kid. Alas...

Trembling in her seat. Her eyes won't meet yours.